


Bronze | Silver | Gold

by thesaddestboner



Category: Hockey RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: 2002 Winter Olympics, Cuddling & Snuggling, Detroit Red Wings, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Loss, M/M, POV First Person, Sharing a Bed, Team Canada, Team Russia, Team USA, Victory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bronze. Silver. Gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bronze | Silver | Gold

**Author's Note:**

> These were originally posted to Fanfiction.net, back when FFN allowed RPF. I actually got yelled at on FFN by a self-professed Bill O'Reilly fan over the gen ones because there was platonic bed sharing, and then she went and created a "no slash zone" website, posted about it on the House/Wilson LJ comm, and got flamed out of fandom for it.
> 
> Yeah, these are old and crappy. Posting here for posterity.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

****

**Bronze**

_The bronze medals don't shine quite as brightly as the gold, do they?_

I look down at the yellow roses and bronze medal in my hand, a ball of lead in my stomach and a lump in my throat, and then look over at Darius.

He puts the heavy blue ribbon around his neck, unable to hide his joy, and runs his fingers over the medal, seemingly awed that he's won another at the Olympic games. That boy has the right attitude. He would make a fine captain of Team Russia one day, when I am gone.

I tilt my head toward the flag as the music plays. The National Anthem never sounded so bittersweet.

Back home they were probably celebrating Slava's failure to deliver a gold. They would probably file this bronze around my neck as further evidence as to why Mikhailov should have been retained.

After the ceremonies and a dinner out with some of the team, I reach Slava's room around midnight to see how he is holding up.

His hotel door is slightly ajar, so I let myself in.

" _Twelve medals, Slava. It's a record, you know_ ," I say, holding it up by the blue ribbon.

He's sitting in a maroon armchair, holding a half-empty bottle of vodka between his legs. A full glass is dangling in his left hand as he runs the fingers of his right along the mouth of the bottle.

" _You would think that I am a leftover from the Cold War_." He sniffs, derisively, and gestures to a newspaper, gutted and spread out in front of his feet.

“ _They don't think that,_ " I scold him gently, holding out the medal. " _Aren't you going to look at it?_ "

He sighs, sipping his vodka, and I wonder which one this is. " _They picked me as coach to win gold, not bronze,_ ” he slurs, drunkenly, raising his glass to his wet lips.

I approach him and pry the bottle of vodka out of his hand.

“ _They're probably toasting my failure back home_ ," he mutters, pitifully, sipping from his glass. “ _They're probably burning me in effigy in front of...Lenin's Tomb!_ " He twists his mouth into a scowl.

" _Give me_ that _!_ " I grab the vodka away from him and finish it off in one swallow. " _You're overreacting, Slava. You've won bronze medals before, and you never whined this much._ "

He trains his eyes on me as he's slumped in the ratty maroon armchair, clutching the armrests. " _You know full well they wanted me to fall flat on my face from the start, and I did. I did Mother Russia proud._ " Slava raises his hand in a mock salute. " _To Mother Russia!_ "

“ _Cut that out,_ " I grumble, wishing I hadn't downed that vodka quite so quickly.

Slava leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He smoothes down his brown hair and runs them over his face, letting out a haggard sigh. " _We should be playing for the gold,_ " he mutters weakly, his eyelids sagging. From tiredness or drunkenness, I cannot determine.

" _You know full well that Samsonov's shot didn't go in,_ " I point out, sitting in front of him and pulling off his shoes.

Slava acknowledges this, begrudgingly. " _I know what I did not see, Igor. I did not see light go on. I did not see a goal go up on the scoreboard on our side._ "

Being considerably smaller than he, it is quite a task to drag him to his bed, but I give it my best shot.

" _You are a Master of Sport. You are an NHL Hall of Fame inductee. You will get over this as you got over Lake Placid._ "

" _With vodka. Lots and lots of vodka,_ " he chirps, not even bothering to undress, and pulls the covers up to his chin.

He will be fine, I think.

As I head toward the door, I hear him mutter, sleepily, " _Thank you, Igor... In four more years?_ "

I grin and stop, my hand poised over the brass doorknob. " _We'll see, Papa Bear. If I'm still playing at forty-five, we'll see._ "

" _Don't call me, I'll call you,_ " he mumbles into his pillow. " _Good night, Iggy. Thank you._ "

I smile and shut the door behind me.

****

**Silver**

When I get back to our suite, Chris is sitting at the table, staring at his silver medal, his wilted yellow flowers lying beside his hand.

"You okay, Chris? You're looking kind of catatonic," I say, dropping my jacket on the floor.

He looks up and holds the medal up. "Should have been gold, Brett. We should have won."

I nod, sitting beside him and pulling him next to me in a tight hug. "It's okay, Chris."

"I failed. I tried my best," he whimpers, near tears. "My best wasn't good enough, again. I failed in Nagano and now I've failed again."

I run my fingers through his wet black hair and rub the back of his neck.  
Chris leans into my chest, pressing his head into my shoulder. "We had it," he whispers, sadly, hauntedly. "We were SO close, Brett, and it slipped through our fingers." Chris runs his index finger over his medal slowly, and then the blue ribbon.

I keep my arm around his shoulders. "Are you going to be okay, Chris?"

"What, do you think I'm going to slit my wrists," he asks, appearing offended. "Or trash the hotel room?" He touches the medal still hanging around my neck.

"No, I just want to be sure you're going to be okay," I reply.

"I can handle this," he sighs, even though I still think he needs me. "I've handled worse."

"I want to be with you," I insist, not leaving his side. "We need each other right now."

Chris nods in agreement, as I move my hands to his shoulders. "Feels good."

"You're very tense, Chris."

"I know," he mutters rolling his head back and letting out a groan.

"How do you think it'll be, when we get back home?" I ask, scratching the back of his neck, affectionately.

Chris shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know, Brett."

"They deserved it."

"So did we."

I shrug. "We didn't win, but we played our asses off, Chris. Take some consolation in that."

"We DID," he admits, softly.

"And you led us to the silver medal," I add.

Chris looks at me with watery eyes, managing a fleeting smile. "I did, didn't I?"

I nod. "Uh huh. We've got nothing to be ashamed of, Chris. Nothing at all."

He takes my hand in his and squeeze it, managing a more solid smile. "Thanks, Hully. You're golden."

I grin and swat the back of his head, and drape my arm around his shoulders. "We gained a very valuable experience we'll carry with us forever, Chris." I rest my head on his shoulder. "We'll walk together forever. No one can take this from us."

I finally succeed in getting a smile out of him, albeit small and sheepish. "Thanks, I needed that." He looks at me, dark eyes free of tears.

"No prob. I'm only here to help." I reply, and dip my head for a kiss.

**Gold**

I can't believe it. It feels like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. It feels almost as good as winning the Cup in 1997.

We've just vanquished fifty years of ghosts. Fifty years of disappointment, fifty years of being just not good enough to get it done.

When they place the medal around my neck, I can't help but cry a little. 

This is one of those times when it's okay for grown men, macho hockey players, to show their unbridled emotions.

The medal weighs one and a half pounds, but it's as light as a feather.

As the Anthem comes to a close, I let out a victory yell and pump my yellow flowers into the air.

"Isn't this just great," Brendan asks, his black eyes sparkling.

"It is," I admit, giving him a hug. "One of the best feelings in the world."

"The only thing that could top it - " Brendan pauses, and I finish the sentence for him.

I grin at him and throw an arm around his shoulders. " - would be winning the Cup."

-

Brendan and I go out for drinks alone after the game, and Gretzky's little post-game party. We have an early flight Monday morning, so we decide to skip the Olympic closing ceremonies.

When we get back, Pronger's and MacInnis's beds are empty. We have some time alone to just unwind and relax.

I flop into bed on my back and close my eyes, sinking into the cushiony mattress and remove my medal from around my neck. 

My gold medal.

My gold. _My_ gold.

The words still sound foreign to me. It seems like only yesterday we were coming back with our tails tucked between our legs, losers to the Czechs. 

We are the world champions and no one can take that from us.

Brendan flops next to me and wraps his arm around my waist, as I turn the hotel TV to the Olympic closing ceremonies. "Steve?"

"Yeah," I ask, sleepily.

"In the last Olympic year, we won a Cup," says Brendan. "How 'bout we repeat history."

I smile, grabbing him around the shoulders and giving him a one-armed hug. "Sounds good to me." I reply, rubbing a hand over his forehead.

I'm drained, totally emotionally and physically drained. My body shudders beside Brendan's, it actually shudders.

"You okay?" he asks, leaning up on his elbows. 

"I'm just bushed," I reply, tiredly, stifling a yawn.

Brendan grins. "We're Olympic champs. Canada is the world champion of hockey."

I'm amused by his excitement and allow myself to smile, despite my aching body, which is telling me to just go to sleep.

"Yeah, Shan, we are, aren't we?" I raise my head and offer him a weak smile.

He rests his head on my shoulder, holding me close to him as he closes his eyes. "Last Olympics together," he mumbles, sounding like he's standing in the clouds.

I rub the back of his neck. "Yep... But we'll have this moment forever. We'll walk together forever. No one will ever forget us or what we did, Bren."

He nods, burrowing himself against me. "'Night, Stevie."

"Good night, Bren."

I turn off the light on the night stand and pull him a little closer to me.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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